


A Troubling Affair

by dcfg21



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcfg21/pseuds/dcfg21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The minor government official has always seen himself as asexual. What happens when a certain Detective Inspector piques his interest?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is fluffy and saccharine, but with the alluring promise of later slash. Enjoy, my lovelies.

“Who are you, then?” Lestrade asked with a bit of tweak. Mycroft’s chin clenched in minor affront as Lestrade looked him over with a raised eyebrow. An awfully chiseled eyebrow, he noted with surprise. _Now, where did that come from?_

  
Sherlock glanced up from the body to the dark-suited figure. “My brother, Mycroft Holmes.” He frowned at Mycroft. “Shouldn’t you be plotting a hostile takeover of some third-world dictatorship or something? The rest of us have actual work to do.”

  
The detective inspector smiled and extended a hand. “Greg Lestrade. Sherlock’s spoken of you before, but I was beginning to think you were some sort of drug-addled myth.”

  
Sherlock glared at Lestrade and snorted. “Myth? Hmm, yes, I suppose Mycroft’s a legend in his own mind.”

  
Mycroft shook the offered hand, the firm grasp not surprising. What was surprising was the effect it was having. Something tiny, almost like electricity, traveled through his fingers as he pulled his hand back. _Curious, but not unpleasant._ The handshake was much like the man, solid, strong. He’d read through the DI’s personnel files some time ago, but hadn’t been through them recently. He made a mental note to take that up with Anthea.

  
“Thank you, Sherlock. Always a rousing introduction with you.” Mycroft’s lips quirked. “Mycroft Holmes, as my little brother so delightfully pointed out. Lovely to meet you, Detective Inspector.”

  
“Greg, please.”

  
Mycroft nodded because suddenly, small, squeezing spasms were working their way up his throat, startling him into silence as the silver-haired man gave him a warm, full smile revealing a row of perfect white teeth, the expression causing Mycroft’s body to flush unnaturally. _Strange._ What was this about?

  
“You alright, Mycroft? You look like you’ve had too many Bloody Marys.” Sherlock asked.

  
Mycroft blew out a breath, “No, no, fine.” He tapped the point of the umbrella on the concrete. “All’s well, thank you, Sherlock.” He tugged at the knot on his tie, the Windsor knot seeming a little too tight all of a sudden. _Alarming._ “I’m here on a matter of national security.”

  
Sherlock stood and stared him down. “No, no,” he said, waving a hand dramatically at Mycroft, “your color’s off. What’s the matter with you? Are you ill or something?” Sherlock sounded slightly horrified and took step back, as if it was catching. He stared for a moment, then Sherlock’s cool blue eyes narrowed and his upper lip twitched briefly with a slight smile as he perused his brother’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. The consulting detective’s trademark frown returned.

  
“You can tell the Queen to piss off. I’ve got a serial here. Loads of fun.”

  
“Sherlock!” Mycroft hissed.

  
“Fine,” he drawled. “You can tell ‘Her Majesty’ to piss off. I’ve got murders to solve! I don’t care about whatever mischief your backstabbing little cronies are up to. This is much more interesting.” He tied his scarf in a flourish and gave a dismissive sniff. “John!” he called, heading off to hail a cab. “Baker Street! I will require 3 liters of petrol, the harpoon, and see if you can get your hands on a flame-thrower. The game is on!”

  
An exasperated John began hurriedly typing into his phone, running after Sherlock, nearly missing the cab. It pulled away from the curb and went a few feet before stopping with a lurch. Sherlock’s curls popped through the open window and yelled. “I’m 84.2 percent sure it was the fishmonger from the first scene! Will text you my results!” His head disappeared and the cab was gone.

  
“SHERLOCK!” Lestrade yelled, flinging his arms into the air. With an annoyed huff, he turned to Mycroft. “Your brother will be the death of me.” Lestrade’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mirth beneath eyes the color of…God, what color were they? A rich blend of gold and bronze that glittered like the swirl of expensive sherry in a crystal glass. _Astonishing._ Even more astonishing, Mycroft noted with a hard swallow, was that those eyes were watching him thoughtfully. Beautiful eyes in a beautiful face. Mycroft cleared his throat in an effort to shake the fog.

  
“He tends to have that effect on people.”

  
“Yes, well, it’s bloody infuriating, and I have this serial and a back log of cases as long as my arm,” Lestrade sputtered.

  
Mycroft’s breath began to do that squeezy thing again as the corners of Lestrade’s mouth turned down, an action which immediately served to plump the rosy flesh of his bottom lip. Why was he noticing this man’s lips? And more importantly, why could he not look away? The flush was back as the DI’s swiped the point of his tongue (very pointy, very pink, and oh, God, _moist_ ) across his lips. The flustering thought made him feel as if someone had very politely flicked a lighter and set fire to the back of trousers, swirls of smoke and heat suddenly wrapping around him. _Insanity._ Maybe he was ill. But this was no kind of illness he had ever experienced before. This was instant. This was shocking. This was not proper. He wasn’t even sure it was English. No, definitely not English, as it bordered on the unseemly. Too much American telly with the CIA chaps. He forced his mind back to the matter at hand and looked away from the too-handsome detective inspector’s eyes to the hand on his umbrella.

  
“Yes, well, Detect-“

  
“Please, it’s Greg.” There went the dazzling smile again. _Keep it together, Holmes._ _You bring down nations by text message, for God’s sake!_ “Unless you piss me off,” the DI chuckled. “Then I’ll run you in on a fake drugs bust.”

  
All Mycroft could do was smile. _Idiot._

  
“Works on Sherlock all the time,” Lestrade added.

  
“Yes, um, Greg.” He felt the need to adjust his tie again. And run. Another throat clearing and he finished, “If I hear from my brother, which I’m sure I won’t until I am forced to track him down, I’ll give you a call. Here’s my card if you need to reach me.” He managed to pull the crisp, white card from his jacket with a thankfully steady hand and presented it to Lestrade, who grasped it with long, tanned fingers. He artfully flipped the card from finger to finger like some sort of sleight of hand before tucking it away, and Mycroft swore he could feel the redness creeping from his toes as suddenly he became aware of how dexterous those fingers were. Yes, totally unseemly to notice the length and dexterity of another man’s fingers. Unseemly to notice how much you want to shake his hand again just to feel them. _Oh, God._

  
“Thanks,” Lestrade replied. “I’d give you mine, but I’m sure you know everything you want to about me, seeing as how you’re the government and all.” He laughed richly. “As least that’s what Sherlock says. He’s got all kinds of ridiculous notions. Babbles on about how he thinks you’ve got cameras hidden at Baker Street.” He paused and lifted the shapely eyebrow again. “You don’t, do you?”

  
“Well—“

  
“Wait,” Lestrade interrupted, holding up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  
A long, black sedan pulled up to the curb. _Anthea, I could kiss you._ Finally the minor government official returned and Mycroft straightened as he sniffed delicately. “Thank you for your time…Greg. If I need you, I’ll call.”

  
A slow smile made its way across Lestrade’s face. “You do that, Mycroft. I look forward to hearing from you.”

  
As the door shut and he slid into the leather seat, Mycroft groaned inwardly. ‘If I need you, I’ll call’? What in God’s name was that? What was happening? And Greg—no, no, he needed to stay the ‘Detective Inspector’. Much more formal, much more proper. English. What was with his smile and the ‘You do that, Mycroft’? What was that?

  
“Drink, sir?” Anthea asked, her eyes glued to the BlackBerry.

  
“Talisker. Two fingers. Neat.” Anthea’s eyebrow rose. He never drank anything other than a gin and tonic in the car. “Just pour it,” he snapped.

  
She poured and handed him the glass, and he drained it one long swallow. The burn was good, searing off the haze of feeling that was wildly unwanted. His mind drifted back to Lestrade and his parting words. He closed his eyes and hissed, “What _was_ that?”

  
“Flirting, sir.”

  
He almost dropped the glass.

  
“Wh-what?” he choked out.

  
“I assume you mean the little smile the detective inspector gave you. You looked rather…taken aback.” Anthea continued typing without looking up. “And he looked rather pleased. Ergo, flirting.”

  
“I’m sure I don’t know—“

  
She sighed and put the phone down. “Shall I be frank, sir?”

  
Mycroft nodded.

  
“In case you weren’t aware, DI Lestrade is bisexual. Common knowledge among the female staffers, sir. That sort of thing is, shall we say, intriguing to most women, and as he is very good-looking, word travels fast.”

  
“How fast?” Mycroft’s lips pursed.

  
“Faster than baby rumors for Wills and Kate.”

  
“Oh, God.”

  
“Exactly.” She folded her hands. “But, I am reliably informed that he is currently single and has not been with a woman since his divorce, some months ago. There has been a great deal of disappointment and some kerfuffle, I might add, amongst the female contingency regarding that, but no steady boyfriends, either.”

  
Mycroft felt the blood draining from his face as Anthea continued to speak. How did a simple handshake and its repercussions suddenly become a frank and rather off-putting discussion about the sexual proclivity and availability of one detective inspector?

  
“Kerfuffle?”

  
“You know, cattiness, backstabbing,” she waved her hand, “‘whore’ this, ‘slag’ that. You should feel lucky. Apparently, he’s a catch.” She picked up the phone and went back to typing.

  
“Why on earth should I feel lucky? I don’t even know the man, much less trying to date him.”Mycroft said indignantly.

  
“Aren’t you? I watched from the corner, sir. And you gave him your card. You never give anyone your card,” she pointed out.

  
“Really, Anthea-“

  
“Your behavior, his smile. Flirting, sir. I would stake my reputation as a woman on it. When shall I arrange a meeting? You’re free Tuesday after next for two hours at half-seven. Two hours is good for a first date.”

  
“Date?” he choked.

  
“Date.” She confirmed. “Now, shall I arrange it?”

  
He thought for a moment, attempting to make heads or tails of the situation. Nothing. Perhaps the only way to get rid of this was to confront it head on, like he did with everything else in his business affairs. Take charge, assess the situation, and procure the proper outcome. This was nothing, really. He would meet Lestrade again, and all of this nonsense would disappear. _That’s it, Holmes._ _Take matters into your own hands._

  
“No,” he replied smoothly. “I’ll deal with this myself.”

  
“Very good, sir.” She sat back and resumed typing.

  
He would figure out if there was any truth to Anthea’s revelation. If there was anything behind the detective inspector’s smile, if there was any sort of feeling going on. Now the question remained, what was it _he_ , Mycroft Holmes, the cold and calculating servant of the Empire, was feeling? Mycroft’s stomach turned. American telly hadn’t prepared him for this.

  
~

  
The surveillance tapes arrived on Thursday, wrapped in a nondescript little package, complete with a note handwritten in a distinctive flourishing scrawl.

  
_As I’m sure you’re aware by now, my brother was right. Consider this a token of my appreciation for all you do for him. Will make your prosecution go smoothly. MH_

  
The tapes, in fact, cemented Sherlock’s deduction that it was the fishmonger after all, and the subsequent arrest had pleased his superiors.

  
Lestrade laid the note on his desk, studying it warily. He half-expected the damn thing to self-destruct after he’d read it, but for some reason he couldn’t consign it to the bin. So, he just stared at it, occasionally fingering the crisp, white (and very expensive) cardstock. The note was very much like the man. Clean, efficient, and to the point.

  
Lestrade wanted to know more about the man and he’d tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to garner any information on the elder Holmes through official channels. Every door he tried was summarily shut in his face. Minor government position. Bollocks. He couldn’t help but wonder if that’s all he was. A suit wrapped in secrets and an umbrella.

  
He’d even gone so far as to try to twist some answers from Sherlock, but the sulky consulting detective was even more tight-lipped, refusing to reply to his subtle questioning, sending Sherlock into a rather long and protracted rant about physics, chemistry, and sentiment that he didn’t completely understand. John Watson hadn’t managed more than a sympathetic smile before attempting to calm his friend with the intriguing promise of an unsolved poisoning. Sherlock had glared at him and let it go.

  
He had to admit he was pleased at Mycroft’s little fluster at his bit of flirt. He couldn’t help it. The man was rather attractive, in a posh, aristocratic sort of way, and the subtle flush of his cheeks at their exchange only served to remind him how long it had been since he’d dated. Man or woman. Mycroft had looked more surprised than interested, but his instinct told him to go ahead. Nowadays, it was getting harder to tell who was gay and who wasn’t. He still wasn’t a hundred percent sure about Mycroft, but if he was a betting man, and he was (nasty vice, that), he’d put fifty quid on yes and sit back and watch the cash roll in.

  
He knew full well it was no big secret around the Yard that he was bisexual; he did enjoy the company of women, in bed and out, but there was a substantial (damn near all of it, to be honest) portion of his libido that relished the feel of a man beneath him. The solid feel of corded muscle, the hard plane of a sculpted chest, the strong slide of hands that knew all the right places to touch. Knew because the anatomy was the same. Less fumbling, less frustration, and so much more pleasure. It was all just a label, and he couldn’t give a shit about labels. If he had, there was no way he would have ever allowed the freakishly brilliant consulting detective and his ever-patient Army doctor flatmate to solve cases for the Yard. And then he never would have met Mycroft. And he never would be wondering when he would see the minor governmental official again. Pesky things, labels.

  
The next gift (he really couldn’t think of what else to call it) arrived on Friday, hand-delivered by royal courier. Lestrade unwrapped the package and spit coffee all over himself as he read the accompanying note, handwritten on more expensive stationary, the blazing red crest and the words “Buckingham Palace” emblazoned at the top of the letterhead. He dabbed at his tie and scanned the note in awe.

  
_You are a credit to your profession. Please accept as a token of Our humble thanks. Elizabeth R._

  
Once he quit spluttering, he opened the box and pulled out a set of sterling silver and diamond cufflinks, embossed with the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee crest. He frowned for a moment, wondering what nonsense his detectives were up to now when a creeping flush of realization dawned on him.

  
_Mycroft Holmes, you cheeky bastard._

  
The weekend came and went without further contact from the elder Holmes. Twice (maybe closer to five times), Lestrade contemplated picking up the phone to ring him. He even made it as far as digging out Mycroft’s card, having every digit pressed into his mobile, but he couldn’t bring himself to hit send. The resulting anxiety had forced him to down three pints of lager and a carton of chocolate ice cream before finally succumbing to sleep. And damned if he didn’t dream about exquisitely tailored suiting and umbrellas.

  
The last straw came Tuesday evening, just as he was finishing up some paperwork before leaving. There was a knock at his office door.

  
“Come.”

  
Sally Donovan entered with a dark brown folder marked ‘Confidential’. “Sorry to bother you, boss. I know you’re headed out, but a bloke dropped this off for you. Said it was important.”

  
“What bloke?” he asked.

  
“Dunno,” she shrugged, handing the folder over. “Government type. You know, expensive black suit, swarthy, sunglasses, earpiece. The whole nine yards. Gave me the willies.”

  
He turned the folder over in his hands. “Government? You sure?”

  
“Absolutely, guv. He was definitely MI-something. Secret something.” She backed out and closed the door quietly behind her.

  
Lestrade blew out a low breath and opened the folder, unsure of what he was about to see. The first item was a long-range surveillance photo of a woman exiting a high-rise somewhere in London. He looked closer at the photo and realized he was staring at his ex-wife’s face as she left her solicitor’s office building. His face crinkled into a full-on snarl as he looked at the next piece of paper in the folder. Another handwritten note. He recognized the dramatic scrawl immediately.

  
_It pains me to know that your ex-wife has petitioned for full-custody and severe limitations on your visitation rights. Motions have already been drawn and submitted on your behalf. Rest assured, this will not come to pass. MH_

  
Lestrade began to shake as a red haze passed over his vision. He hadn’t even received notification yet, and here it was in black and white, confirmation of information that had bypassed him altogether. Anger began to flow through him. First at his ex, then at Mycroft. The audacity of that man! How dare he? Damn him and damn the government! The papers began to crumple in his fists when Sally returned.

  
“Boss?”

  
“What?” he snapped.

  
“Sorry, but there’s a car for you downstairs. Woman with a BlackBerry. Said you knew what this was about.”

  
He growled and snatched his coat from the rack, shoving his arms inside, papers still clenched in his fist. “You’re damn right I do. Bastard,” he hissed, pushing past Sally at a dead run.


	2. A Troubling Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit short. Been busy and still figuring out where these boys are headed.

“MYCROFT!”

The loud bellow preceded the bounding footsteps of the detective inspector, echoing off the concrete and thundering through the warehouse.

“WHERE ARE YOU, YOU BASTARD?”

Mycroft began to step forward when Lestrade rounded the corner and spotted him. Greg’s face was drawn up in anger, his whole body tense and near to shaking. He was beautifully fearsome and a tiny shiver rolled up Mycroft’s spine as Lestrade approached. Mycroft swallowed, time suddenly slowing as Greg neared, his eyes unable to look away. Lestrade marched forward, a general on the attack, determination written across his face, radiating from him in waves. Pinpricks of excitement danced across Mycroft’s skin as he stared, because the DI was definitely something to stare at. Broad shoulders concealed beneath a cheap twill blazer, a rock-hard torso that was defined by the shift of a crisp, pale blue oxford with each step, and trousers that seemed to shine a spotlight onto thighs that made Mycroft’s breath catch in his throat. _Good God, I’ve awakened a beast._

Lestrade shook the papers in Mycroft’s face and then threw them to the ground. The rage was barely controlled.

“What the fuck is this?” he spat. “You’re spying on my ex? On me?” He ran a hand back through the short salt and pepper strands, coming back to jab a long, pointy finger into Mycroft’s face. “You’d better start explaining. And it better be fucking good, or I will pound you into the concrete right here, government official or not.”

“There’s no need for violence,” Mycroft sniffed, holding himself straight. An angry Lestrade seemed infinitely larger than a happy one, a notice that set Mycroft’s breathing on edge.  More noticing shed light on fascinating things, such as the rapid rise and fall of Greg’s chest, the twitch of long, lovely fingers clenched at his side, the hard set of a jaw he was certain could cut glass, a jaw which he wanted to drag his tongue across. _Stop this now. He’s rightly pissed and all you can do is stand around looking surprised while imagining your tongue all over his body. All over? Sweet Christ._

“Then tell me what in the bloody hell is going on! I didn’t even know she was planning on doing this!” A slow burn started behind Lestrade’s eyes. “I can’t believe she’s doing this! She can’t do this!” he yelled, throwing his arms in the air, forcing Mycroft to take a step back.

“Calm down,” Mycroft snapped. “I understand you’re angry—“

“Angry? Angry? This is beyond ang—You? Understand?” Greg scoffed. “How could you possibly understand? These are my _children_ , Mycroft. You’re interfering and she’s trying to take them away from me! This doesn’t concern you!”

“And I told you it would not happen,” he shot back. _Not going well, Mycroft._ He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, letting the calm wash over his face as he considered his next words carefully. “I realize I have crossed a line here, Greg.” He paused. “And I am sorry. You are correct; it’s not my place. But, I can help you. I want…to help you.” He suddenly wished he had his umbrella, needing something to do with his hands, other than offer them to Greg in supplication. The umbrella was a grounding tool, able to keep him focused and in control. Not to mention its Bondesque duality as a weapon. There were perks to being the British government, after all.

“By spying on me? Is that how you government types get your jollies? Watching people? Playing with their lives?” Lestrade’s eyes iced over. “I want no part of that, do you understand? No part.” His shoulders relaxed, but he still glared. “And even though I hate the bitch with every passing breath, I won’t have you watching her, either. Or my children.”

“Point taken.” Mycroft shifted nervously on his feet. He wasn’t used to taking orders, but the look in Greg’s eyes told him this was something the detective inspector would not concede, and if pressed, he would fight back.

“Good,” Lestrade murmured. “Now call off your watchdogs.”

“You have my word, Gr—“

“Do it.” Lestrade’s voice was sharp as steel and just as deadly. “Now.”

Mycroft slipped his mobile from his jacket pocket and sent a quick text. “Done.”

The cold faded from Greg’s face and he let out a deep sigh. “Thank you.”

He tucked the mobile away and managed a small smile, pleased to see that Greg’s face remained placid. _Crisis averted._ “I shall remember in the future your dislike of intrusion.”

“Like kidnapping me and whisking me away to dilapidated warehouses in the south of London? That kind of intrusion?”

“In my defense, this warehouse only looks dilapidated,” Mycroft smiled lightly.

“Right,” Lestrade sniffed. “Now, why are we here?”

Mycroft’s eyes hit the concrete and he shifted again. “I thought, possibly, er..that is, you might want to have dinner with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me. Please, reviews and comments are always welcomed.


	3. A Troubling Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: There is slash to come. Stay with me.

“Dinner?” Lestrade’s eyebrow rose as he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “You’re asking me to dinner? Like what, on a date?”

Mycroft fidgeted with his tie, hoping it concealed the tight lump in his throat.  “Um, yes. A date, if that’s alright with you.”

Greg smiled. “Yes, that’s fine with me. I didn’t realize you—, well, I thought you were, but—“

“I’m not,” Mycroft broke in. “Well, the fact is, I’m not really, um—“ he stammered. “I’m afraid I’m not very good as this sort of thing.”

He was rewarded with a widening of Greg’s smile, the gesture making his heart pound fiercely beneath the layers of his suit. The echo was so loud in his ears he wondered if Greg could hear it, because it was near to deafening.

“You’re doing fine,” Greg replied. “Relax.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft shifted on his feet again, “I’ve never asked a gentleman for a date before. I’m out of my element, as they say.”

“Never?”

Mycroft shook his head.

“What about women?”

“Sadly, no. My experience in this area is severely limited and I’m beginning to see, rather lacking.” _Oh, God, this was a horrible idea. Why did I listen to Anthea?_

The smile on Greg’s face didn’t waver, but the softness vanished, replaced with a glint of something else. A steady coolness, born of confidence, hovered over the Detective Inspector’s features and an unsettling edge crept into his whiskey-colored eyes.

Greg paused for a moment, and then he spoke in a voice that sounded like dripping caramel.

“That’s alright, Mycroft. I’ve done this before.”

The rich sound and the innuendo it contained melted over him, turning his knees to water, threatening to unman him here and now. That was a voice he could get used to hearing for days on end. Hushed whispers, breathless moans, and fevered gasps suddenly began to worm their salacious way into his ears and Mycroft could feel the blood coursing through his body in a rush. He wanted to hear more. Much more.

“I would like,” he began, trying very hard not to notice the point of Greg’s tongue as it swiped across his lips, “I would like to get to know you better. I thought, perhaps, a date was a way to make that happen.”

“I see.” Again with the smooth rumble of that honeyed voice.

“I was hoping you would be agreeable. To a date, that is. With me.”

“Of course.” This time the smile changed, a seductive baring of strong, white teeth with a hint of danger. Chills ran down Mycroft’s spine, tingling all the way. _Dazzling. God, but the man was beautiful._

Mycroft cleared his throat and found his voice. “How do you feel about that?”

“No.”

The world could have imploded around him and he wouldn’t have noticed the devastation over the sound of his heart plummeting to his feet.

“Um, no?”

Greg nodded. “That’s right. No.” He withdrew his hands from his pockets and stepped close, the spicy-sweet tang of his aftershave tickling Mycroft’s nostrils. “If you want a date with me, then you have to ask me properly. Sending me surveillance footage and cufflinks won’t cut it. Neither will kidnapping. Not the way to go about it, you see.”

“Er, well—“

“I understand this is…new for you. So, I’ll let that slide. Once.” Greg drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, carefully, before finding Mycroft’s eyes. “This is not a business proposition. We’re not making a deal, here.” He moved closer still, their bodies inches apart, and Mycroft’s lungs suddenly stopped working along with most of his brain, as his body began to reroute all his blood and synapses into one prominent portion of his flushed anatomy. A long, tanned finger came up and stroked the knot of his tie, forcing blood to pool at his groin, the sensation growing and insistent. “If you want something from me, Mycroft Holmes, you have to ask nicely.”

The man was downright evil. Satan in tweed. Had to be, because what was going on within his trousers was decidedly less than angelic.

“Nicely?” he choked out.

“Mmmhmm. No subterfuge, no pretense.” Greg licked his lips again and Mycroft’s erection jumped. “Just tell me what you want.”

_God, this man._ “I want—“

“Yes?” Greg murmured, eyes fixed on his.

“I want to take you to dinner.” The words were forced from throat with considerable effort to not sound like a squeak.

Greg released another long breath (did he even know what that was doing to him?) through his nostrils, the warmth trailing across Mycroft’s face like smoke. “There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

He managed a strangled noise and shook his head.

“Very well,” Greg said, “In that case, I would love to have dinner with you, Mycroft.”

“Um, yes, good. It would be my pleasure.”

The short chuckle was a low, feral rumble that made his mouth water. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But dinner is an excellent way to begin.”

“Yes, dinner.” _Christ, could he sound more like a stuttering idiot?_

The flash was back in Greg’s eyes. “I think you should know that I’m very intrigued by you. And that I find you extremely attractive. Extremely. Just in case you weren’t sure. I want very much to get to know you better, as well.”

Yes, definitely Satan. And he was damning him on purpose. He could practically feel the fires of Hell nipping at his heels while Greg just looked so damned…smug. _You beautiful bastard._

“One more thing, Mycroft.” _God, but the way he says my name._ Greg’s hand moved and the long, mesmerizing digit ran slowly under the edge of his lapel, fingering it with purpose. Mycroft tensed, clenching his jaw to keep from gasping. “Lose the Saville Row trappings. I want to find out what’s beneath the hand-stitched Egyptian wool. You need to be slightly more…unraveled for dinner at the pub.”

“The-the pub?”

Greg nodded. “Yes. It’s more casual. Like I said, this is not a _business_ proposition.”

Mycroft swallowed. “Fine. Tomorrow, then? Half-seven? There’s a pub down from Sherlock’s flat—“

“Perfect.” He leaned in and whispered, “It’s a date, then.”

Mycroft stood stunned, unmoving, as the finger continued its maddening descent from the corner of his lapel down to the center button of his jacket, curling ever so slightly around it to draw Mycroft forward.

All coherent thought fled as Greg’s lashes (those long, thick lashes) fluttered closed and his mouth parted on a breath, brushing their lips together in a soft, warm kiss.

The sensation from just that brief touch was staggering, not at all what he remembered from the few kisses of his past, and this one served to erase them all from his memory instantly. There was never this much heat, never the promise of this much fire. There was only Greg and the tingling taste of him, spreading like flames across his lips. A deep moan escaped him as his eyes closed and he leaned into the embrace, savoring the feel of the gentle pressure and the sweet ache it was producing.

The light, slick friction was drugging and Greg opened his lips on a ragged groan, thrusting his tongue inside, swirling around the warm, wet recesses, tasting him in one long, agonizing pass.

Mycroft shuddered as Greg pulled back slowly, breaking the kiss, his amber eyes sparkling with pleasure. He brushed the pad of his thumb across the bottom of Mycroft’s lower lip and grinned devilishly.

“Well, well,” he breathed huskily, “Looks like I’ve flipped the lid on Pandora’s Box. Wonder what sort of demons I’ve unleashed.”

Mycroft could only stare, bleary-eyed, shaking trying to regain his faculties.

Greg recovered easily and sniffed. “I’m off then. Do us a favor and call for the car. You owe me a ride home.”

He turned and headed for the door without another glance, strolling away, hands back in his pockets, humming. Mycroft quickly texted Anthea and tucked his mobile away with shaking hands.

_Yes, what demons, indeed?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Please review or comment. Makes my day. Hugs.


	4. A Troubling Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, I know. Bear with me. Also thinking of adding a little Johnlock to the mix. Enjoy!

PUB DATE. DRESS? - MH

WILL HAVE SOMETHING SUITABLE SENT OVER. HAVE FUN. - A.

True to her word, the clothing arrived an hour later by courier and he had to say, he was pleased with her selection. A pair of black driving loafers, a smart leather belt, a pair of dark-washed denims, a fitted lilac oxford, and a casual wool blazer in a lovely shade of gunmetal all fit like a glove. He took a moment to admire Anthea’s handiwork in the mirror, feeling a bit giddy at the outcome. Amazing how the right outfit could take ten years off in a flash. Mycroft’s lips curved into a smile. He would have to give her a raise for this.

He checked his watch and then dialed for the car. He still had time to pop over to Sherlock’s and see how he and the doctor were getting on. Strange, but since the army doctor had entered Sherlock’s life, he found himself relying less on CCTV footage to check on his little brother. Watson seemed to have an unusual ground effect on the genius, making tolerating his company in person much more palatable.

Sherlock was still Sherlock, but there was something about John that made him less…twitchy. A small, but overall pleasing change.

Even so, he wasn’t surprised when Sherlock took one look at his casual state of dress and scoffed, muttering something about hair product and manicures. John, however, was much more encouraging.

“Well, you certainly look different, Mycroft,” John said with a warm smile. “Casual suits you. What’s the occasion?”

“I have a date.”

John frowned at Sherlock’s subsequent snort of disapproval.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John snapped. “A date, is it?” he asked, turning back to Mycroft. “Brilliant! So, who is she?”

A barked laugh erupted from Sherlock. “Who is _she_? Quaint.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. Time to let the cat out of the bag. “Actually, I have a date with Greg Lestrade.”

Sherlock sat up from the sofa with a start. “Lestrade?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not serious. Wait—no, no, you’re not.” His brother curls moved about his face as he shook his head. “Really, Mycroft,” he tutted. “You’ve stepped down to throng among the masses? Isn’t that, oh, what do they call that? John, what do they call that?” He snapped his fingers rapidly in succession. Sherlock’s face lit up. “Ah, slumming it!” He beamed. “Is that what you’re doing, Mycroft? Slumming it with the DI?”

Mycroft bristled and his voice went an octave below deadly. “Sherlock, I suggest you desist with your pitifully narrow view of the world and spare us your posh, elitist claptrap. After all, aren’t you the one shacked up with the broken toy soldier?”

Sherlock gasped, while John merely rolled his eyes at Mycroft.

“How dare you—no, never mind, just get out!” Sherlock yelled. “Out, Mycroft! OUT! OUT! OUT!” The dressing gown fluttered as he rushed to push Mycroft toward the door.

“Sherlock, stop!” John called. “He didn’t mean it! He’s just riding you, for God’s sake! Stop this, the two of you!”

“No! Now see here, Mycroft,” Sherlock ranted, peering down into Mycroft’s face. It was amusing, of course, to see Sherlock get riled about this. “John is not broken. He’s fine. He’s better than fine. He’s a soldier!” Sherlock hissed, face scrunched tightly. “Shot in the shoulder for your precious government. He’s a hero. John’s a hero. A man of honor.” Sherlock’s eyes ran cold with his anger, and Mycroft debated how long he would let his little brother go on. “And a doctor!” Sherlock yelled, flinging his hands in the air, as if it had suddenly occurred to him. “How can you say that about a doctor? The man is a healer, for God’s sake, he puts his hands on people and—“

“I know Sherlock; he eradicates the flu in pensioners, and saves small children from things like smallpox and the plague. He’s single-handedly rescued us all from leprosy at least once, and in his spare time, he saves kittens from trees and walks on water. I know how wonderful you think he is, we’ve had this discussion,” Mycroft droned, rolling his eyes. “Merely trying to demonstrate how hurtful it is when someone disparages a person you….care about.” The last words were difficult, strained. “And I think I may be beginning to care very much for Greg.”

John came up and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good on you, Mycroft. I think this is marvelous.”

Sherlock cast a confused glance between the two of them. “So, you didn’t mean that? You were just having me on?”

John answered for Mycroft. “No, he didn’t mean it, you idiot.”

Sherlock sniffed and flounced over to the sofa, flinging himself with a dramatic swish onto the cushions.

John followed Mycroft to the door. “Just ignore him.”

The bottom of Mycroft’s mouth turned down a fraction. “I’m afraid doing just that has turned him into what he is. The difficult child has become the difficult man.”

John smiled. “He’s still a difficult child. And he’s your brother. That makes you the war hero.”

He chuckled, “Yes, I suppose it does.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Sherlock called petulantly from the sofa. “Gossiping like little girls.” Sherlock’s hand waved dismissively in the air. “Go away, Mycroft. I’m trying to think.”

He turned to John. “Good night.”

“’Night, Mycroft. Have fun. Tell Greg hello for us, will you?”

He nodded and John shut the door behind him.

Sherlock sat up in a whoosh and kicked his legs out to cross them on the coffee table. “Thank God. I thought he was going to spout on all night about _Greg_ and _dating_. Ghastly stuff.” He looked up to find John smirking at him. “What? What? Why are you smiling like that? It’s putting me off.”

John folded his arms across his chest. “You think I’m wonderful.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to read and review. Thanks so much. Enjoy!!

In hindsight, he realized he should have paused before going into the pub. Paused to take a moment to collect himself, to formulate a plan, to contemplate all possible outcomes of the evening before stepping inside to meet Greg head-on. That way, he possibly (only possibly, mind you) would have been prepared for what happened. In all fairness though, even if he _had_ taken that brief moment of reflection, his brain would never have been able to anticipate this. Because really, who kissed ‘hello, good to see you, mate’ like _that_ on a first date? Troubling. This was all very troubling. Yes, it was an extremely troubling press of flesh on flesh, slow and deliberate, all rub and fire, that made him want to say bugger-all to dinner and yes to everything that kiss insinuated. It was just one little kiss. How in the bloody hell could he have expected this?

Greg’s lips were warm and soft and Mycroft felt a cool rush of air prick his skin as Greg pulled back and smiled. “Hi.”

Mycroft felt the heat in his cheeks clear to his toes. “Hi.” He sort of collapsed in his chair with as much composure as he could muster, unable to look away. Greg’s eyes were bright and sparkling and he thought briefly that if he spent the whole evening staring into them, it would not be an evening wasted.

Greg sipped his pint and broke the silence. “I realize that was a little forward, but I don’t care,” he said mildly. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you again.”

“Yes, well, I admit I wasn’t expecting that, but I’m rather glad you did.” He exhaled, letting the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding escape.

Greg raised his pint. “Here’s to the unexpected, then.”

Mycroft took the waiting glass in front of him and clinked it with Greg’s. “The unexpected.”

“So,” Greg began, “tell me about Mycroft Holmes.”

It was impossible for either of them to know that one small statement would lead into a long and sometimes heated introspection of both their lives. Over the course of three hours, they ate and drank, and Mycroft felt the carefully crafted layers of his persona fall away with ease. Every topic from cricket to Coronation Street was covered, with a dash of politics and royal gossip thrown in for good measure. They agreed; they disagreed. Then someone would bat an eyelash or smile softly and then they would agree to disagree. They were several pints in when the conversation strayed into more dangerous territory.

“You said you had never asked a man on a date before. Have you ever been with a man? Sexually?” Greg asked.

Mycroft blinked twice to focus on Greg’s face. He sat quietly, his expression curious, but attentive. Slow panic began flood Mycroft’s brain. How did he even answer that? How much of the truth was acceptable? _Yes, I have, but it was a horrible, embarrassing experience. One I never wished to repeat again, except I did, and it was still just as disappointing, so I sort of gave up on the whole blasted thing._ How does that translate?

“Mycroft?”

“Er-yes,” he stammered, startled back to reality. “Oh, the question. Um, yes. Yes, I have.”

Greg nodded. “Okay. Steady boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

The air was slowly being squeezed from his lungs. _Oh, God. Did we really have to cover this kind of ground? Can’t we just skip to the part where he kisses me again?_

“No,” he managed to murmur. “Never.”

“What about-?”

“Greg,” Mycroft interrupted, “when I said before my experience in the area is lacking, I meant it.” He swallowed nervously, looking at his hands. “I-I-Yes, I’ve been with a man before. Women, too. But,” he looked back to Greg, “not often. A few times, if that.”

“I see,” Greg replied. There was a softness to his eyes and the set of his smile, so endearing, and so understanding. He continued, feeling a little more confident under Greg’s gaze.

“It was a long time ago, and frankly, none of it was very appealing. So, I sort of pushed all that aside. I didn’t seem to have a need or an inclination for it, so it wasn’t something I missed.”

Greg’s eyebrow rose. “Do you have any interest in sex at all? Because if not, one of us is going to be very bored.”

“Well, of course I do. I-I mean…I-Well, of course. I asked, I mean…I wanted….Dinner!” Mycroft spluttered.

Greg held up his hands and chuckled. “Okay, okay. Just making sure I’m not getting the wrong idea. You tell me you’ve not really been interested in sex, but when I kiss you-yeah, not what I’m getting.”

“I’m not trying to be confusing, it’s just…I’m not used to the type of feelings I’m currently having.”

Greg’s mouth quirked. “And what kinds of feelings would those be?”

Mycroft felt himself blush. “Explicit ones.”

One of Greg’s fingers reached out and ran down along the length of his hand. “Those are fun. Let’s see if we can work our way to outright filth.” His mouth tilted up into a sly, feline smile.

Mycroft shuddered. _How in the world did the man make the touch of a single finger so damn predatory? And hot? How could he make him want this when he didn’t even know what ‘this’ is?_

“What’s changed your mind, then? About sex? Dating?” Greg asked, still stroking his hand.

He forced his eyes from Greg’s finer to his eyes. “You.”

“Really?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

Greg leaned in slowly, and Mycroft swore he could feel the temperature rise exponentially with each inch Greg moved closer. “Hmmm. That’s a lot to live up to. I hope you’ll find me…satisfactory in that capacity. When we get to that. Of course.”

“Get to that?” Mycroft hoped that didn’t sound as squeaky as he thought.

“The sex,” Greg confirmed. “Because-“ the finger stroked his hand again, “we will. In time. I’m not in a hurry.”

“You’re-you’re not?” Mycroft licked dry lips.

Greg pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not at all.” His eyes flashed and he smiled wide, revealing that row of strong, white teeth, and when he spoke again, it rumbled over Mycroft like a wave. “I think you’re something that needs…focus. Attention. I think somewhere underneath-“ Suddenly, those fingers were grasping his wrist, pulling him almost across the table, and Mycroft couldn’t tear his gaze from Greg’s eyes, fierce and liquid. “-underneath it all you’ve got one small spark. One little ember and all it needs is someone to stoke the fire-“ He was close, so close, their mouths almost touching. “-and make you burn.”

The brush of Greg’s lips was sizzling. Hot and wet and full of promise. His fingers curled into Mycroft’s sleeve, holding him there for a moment before he let go. Mycroft gasped for a breath.

“If you keep looking at me like that, waiting will no longer be an option. I have some willpower, but I’m no saint, Mycroft.”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “It’s just-I, well…Jesus.”

Greg smiled and stood. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Brilliant idea.”

The night was clear and cool and they walked from the pub through the park and Mycroft felt no trepidation in reaching for Greg’s hand. Greg latched on with a squeeze and they strolled, hand in hand, nowhere particular in mind. They could have walked to Wales and back and Mycroft wouldn’t have minded a bit.

“You’ve asked me about my experience. Perhaps I should inquire about yours?” Mycroft asked lightly.

Greg flashed him a cheeky smile as they walked toward a long stone tunnel. “I have more experience than you do.” He squeezed Mycroft’s hand again and gave him a playful nudge of the shoulder.

Mycroft smiled. “Sherlock’s probably got more experience than I have.” He frowned sternly at Greg. “And if you tell him I said that, I will have you permanently reassigned to traffic duty somewhere backward and unpleasant. Like Newcastle.”

They passed just under the edge of the tunnel and Greg laughed. “Your secret is safe with me.” He stopped suddenly, turning and pressing Mycroft against the cold stone of the tunnel wall. Moonlight cast shadows over Greg’s face, a face now looking very serious. “You are safe with me.”

Safe. How ironic that the notion of safety would be foreign to him, Mycroft Holmes, a man whose very existence was built on the concept. But this was different. This was safety born of the soul, not the body. Because it was his soul and all the corners of his heart that were in danger. And here was the too-handsome DI pledging to keep it safe. _How was he ever supposed to resist this?_

“You know that, don’t you? Because, despite what you’ve heard, and I’m sure you’ve heard quite a bit, I don’t do casual.” His hand came up to cup Mycroft’s cheek, even as his lower half pressed against him. “You are safe with me.”

“Yes.” It was a whisper.

Greg’s eyes darted over his face, wide with excitement and apprehension. There was a slight tremor to his body as he held Mycroft close. He gave a nervous laugh. “I’m very sorry,” he sniffed. “I thought I would have more control.” His words were shaky under the force of the confession, his breath falling across Mycroft’s face in short, hot bursts. “But I want you. Badly.” The intensity in Greg’s eyes was as steely as his hands. “I-You just need to know that. I don’t want it to scare you.”

All he could do was swallow and nod.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

He may have said something that sounded like ‘yes’, he really didn’t know and couldn’t be sure, couldn’t be sure of anything except Greg’s mouth descending on his. It was a loud, wet press of lips and tongue, sliding across one another in a searing pass of delicious friction that Mycroft felt in his bones. His eyes slammed shut and he opened wide, swallowing Greg’s low groan of approval.

Greg’s tongue was doing wicked things to his mouth, teasing and tasting him, finding every hollow and torturing it with a wet, pointed heat. He moaned as Greg pulled back and sucked his lower lip between his teeth, the soft nibble making him gasp. He could feel Greg’s smile against his mouth as he moved to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw line to his ear. Greg’s hands began to move of their own accord, seeking and feeling, searching for bare skin. Mycroft attempted to put his arms around Greg’s waist, but he was batted away as Greg grabbed two handfuls of shirt, pulling it free of his jeans, running the flat of his hands up underneath the shirt.

The sudden contact was electric as Greg’s hot (God, everything about him was hot, he was a one-man furnace) hands made their way up, gliding over skin and muscle. It was so good, the feel of Greg’s mouth, his hands, his body. So good pressed against him in a tantalizing, aching way and Mycroft felt his erection twitch with start. Greg must have felt it too, because he groaned into Mycroft’s mouth and rocked his hips forward, grinding them together.

Stars danced in front of his eyes and he threw his head back, letting the feeling wash over him. Greg’s mouth left his ear and moved to the column of his neck, licking and biting in earnest.

“Greg!” he panted as the DI clamped down on a particularly sensitive spot and sucked. He felt Greg’s fingers pass over his nipples with a light scratch and he bit his lip to keep from screaming. It was never like this. Nothing in his past ever hinted that this much pleasure was even possible. And this was just foreplay. What would the actual sex be like? Greg moving over him, inside him. That thought alone nearly undid him. His hands latched onto Greg’s hips and he bucked into them, causing Greg’s mouth to pop free of his neck.

“God, Mycroft!” he growled, pushing into increase the pressure. He dropped his forehead to Mycroft’s peering into his eyes, those whisky-colored eyes hazy with desire. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

“It’s crossed my mind,” he said breathlessly.

Greg barked out a rough laugh. “I shouldn’t have started this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t finish it.”

Mycroft swallowed, opening his mouth to speak, but Greg kissed him quiet.

“No,” he said firmly. “I meant it. Slow.” His voice sounded hollow, as if it pained him to speak. “I said we would take this slow. Even if it kills me.” The half-hearted smile touched Mycroft somewhere deep within his heart as Greg pulled back, his eyes raking over Mycroft.

It was all a jumble in his head, and Mycroft couldn’t make heads or tails of it. His brow furrowed. “Greg?”

Greg’s answer was to grab Mycroft’s hand and press it roughly to his crotch. He felt the hard bulge there, large and insistent. Greg hissed and closed his eyes as Mycroft gently, experimentally, curled his fingers and squeezed. The desperate, keening sound that came from Greg went straight to his own cock and it surged against his jeans.

“Do you feel what you do to me?” Darkness misted over his eyes and his mouth turned up into a feral snarl. “God, I would take you now, throw you down here in the dirt, if I could.” Mycroft gasped and Greg smiled dangerously. “I would,” he whispered, though it sounded more like a warning, biting Mycroft’s lower lip again with a snap. “Just pound the ever-living fuck out of you.”

The words melted over his body like liquid sin and he moaned, releasing Greg as his hands fell to his side, clutching at the stone behind him for purchase. There was a tentative brush at the front of his jeans and he could feel the heat of Greg’s hand burning him through the denim.

“Greg!” he yelped as the DI’s hand closed around the wanting swelling of his cock. Mycroft’s hips moved in a trembling lurch as Greg rubbed and squeezed, coaxing him harder than he ever thought possible.

“Love it when you say my name,” he murmured against Mycroft’s neck. “Going to shout yours when I get home. Wonder if you’ll say mine.”

“I-I don’t—“ he stuttered. “Not that. Never-I…I don’t need…”

Greg didn’t even look up. “You will.” He punctuated the statement with another hard clench of his fingers that made Mycroft’s knees threaten to give. “Or you could let me take care of it for you.” His fingers roamed, the touch hot and searing as it went, moving easily past his belt buckle, deftly sliding between fabric and flesh, worming their way down until he found his prize.

“Oh, God, Greg!”

Greg’s fingers curled around the length of his bare flesh with certainty, letting out a low, erotic moan of his own as he stroked with deliberate care.

“Greg, please!” The sensations were coming all at once, so fast, hitting him from every angle. It was too much to process, too much to handle. He just couldn’t let go, not like this. “Please, no!” he gasped.

Everything stopped and Mycroft’s eyes went wide as he struggled to catch his breath. Greg’s hand had slipped from his jeans and now rested easily at his hip. He was afraid to look up. Afraid to see what waited in Greg’s eyes. He couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the ground. “It’s just….I….it’s just too much.”

Greg lifted his chin to look at him. There was no judgment, no pressure. “It’s okay. I promise. I won’t say I’m not disappointed, but it’s okay.” He pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft’s mouth. “I said slow, even if I’m doing a shit job of demonstrating that, but I still mean it. We’re good. Really.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m-“

“Shhh.” Greg placed a finger over his lips. “It’s fine. Stop apologizing.” He stepped back. “I think that’s enough excitement for one evening.”

“Agreed.”

“I think the second date will, in all actuality, kill me,” he chuckled. “You’re devastating, Mycroft Holmes. Just bloody devastating.”

Mycroft looked closer at Greg, taking in his disheveled state. Blown pupils, flushed cheeks, ragged breathing and rumpled clothes, the still-present raging erection. It sent a little thrill down his spine. _I did that. That is for me._ Suddenly, he had to know. “Would you really have…?” He let the question trail, daring himself to not look away from Greg’s eyes.

Greg’s heated smile was soft and sensual. “What? Jerked you off in a tunnel in the park?” He licked his lips. “In a heartbeat. But now you’ll have to settle for less. We both will.” He gave Mycroft another quick kiss and turned to go.

“You’re leaving?”

He nodded. “You’re a big boy. Got a car waiting and everything.”

“Let me give you a lift at least?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and went back to looking like Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade rather than ‘Greg, whom I let molest me in a public park’. “Now I don’t think climbing into the backseat of a car with you would be prudent at this point in time, do you?”

Mycroft considered it a moment and smiled. “Good night, Greg.”

“’Night, Mycroft.”

An hour later, Mycroft lay naked and trembling, for the first time in a very long while, among the rumpled sheets of his bed, Greg’s name still on his lips, when his mobile buzzed from the bedside table. He frowned at his contaminated hands, gingerly checking the screen (because really, how does one get ejaculate out from between the buttons?).

IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER IF YOU LET ME DO IT. NEXT TIME, NO ONE IS SETTLING. - GL


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay with me. This one's so much fun to draw out. Please don't hate me.

“Good God!” Mycroft closed the browser window with a hurried click and shut the laptop, casting a furtive glance around, even though he was alone in the hotel room. The pink creep of embarrassment (and possibly arousal?) flushed his cheeks as he went over what he’d just researched.

Apparently, there was a quite a lot more to gay sex than he’d previously believed. Or had been instructed. Perhaps that was why it had all gone tits-up, to use Greg’s vernacular, at his previous attempts. _Greg._

A wistful smile turned up the corners of his mouth. Greg probably knew everything there was to know about the subject. Hell, the man could probably write a book about it. A very detailed and descriptive book, at that.

It had been the better part of a week since their date, and the details were still fresh in his mind. The feel of Greg’s strong hands, warm and sure, the press of his lips on his skin, hot and fevered.  A shiver ran down Mycroft’s spine at the memory. Unfortunately, duty to Queen and country had him holed up here in Prague, doing his best to avoid an international incident between the Empire and factions of the former Eastern bloc. Things were going well diplomatically and he hoped to be home soon, the promise of a second encounter with the DI lingering long on his mind.

This waiting was killing him. The longer he was gone, the more the agreement to take things slow was beginning to lose its luster. He frowned as he recognized the impatience in himself; Mycroft was not a man above eschewing timing in favor of the proper outcome, but now, all he wanted was to be in Greg’s arms again putting his newfound knowledge from the internet to practice, whether or not he was ready for the inevitable. He was, after all, a rather resourceful man. He could handle the nerves and make it work. He thought idly that Greg could do the same. It was a feature of both their occupations. Remarkable man that the DI was, he was sure to understand. Sometimes, things needed to be rushed.

He opened the laptop again and returned to his browsing with keen interest, pushing away the fluster (and a small giggle). It was only a matter of time before he and Greg got around to the more…rigorous aspects of their relationship. Best to go in knowing what he was up against. Another giggle. Chance, indeed, favors the prepared mind.

Several hours later, he sat back with a sigh, mind ablaze with sensual information, and truth be told, a good deal of longing. Longing for the delicious form of one silver-foxed Detective Inspector. The last website he’d visited had opened a new door in his subconscious. One marked of hidden desires and secret fantasies he hadn’t known he was capable of contemplating. But then, that thing he saw with the neck tie was extremely stimulating. And Mycroft owned an obscenely exciting number of neck ties. _Oh, Greg. The things you make me want._ He filed that away for future reference. It wouldn’t do to get ahead of one’s self. Then again, wasn’t he already jumping in head long into the deep end of the pool? It certainly seemed that way.

The buzzing of his mobile broke his reverie and drew his attention.

THINKING OF YOU. MISS YOU. - GL

Mycroft couldn’t contain his smile and his heart began to pound as he typed back.

I MISS YOU, TOO. - MH

WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN. WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME? - GL

SOON. WORK ALMOST DONE. - MH

DELEGATE. COME HOME. - GL

NOT THAT SIMPLE. - MH

YES, IT IS. NEED TO SEE YOU. NEED TO KISS YOU. - GL

ARE YOU FLIRTING WITH MY BY TEXT? - MH

NOT NEARLY AS INNOCENT AS FLIRTING. WANT YOU. - GL

WHAT HAPPENED TO SLOW? - MH

THAT WAS BEFORE YOU LEFT FOR A DAMN WEEK. HOW’S EASTERN EUROPE? - GL

OLD. HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT? - MH

ANTHEA WAS HELPFUL. NOT TOO HELPFUL, THOUGH. SHE’S A PEACH. - GL

THAT SHE IS. AGAIN, SLOW? - MH

FUCK SLOW. I WANT TO FUCK YOU. SLOWLY. - GL

GREG… - MH

MYCROFT… - GL

YOUR OFFER IS MOST INTRIGUING. - MH

WAIT UNTIL YOU GET HOME. I FEAR YOU’LL GET MORE THAN YOU BARGAINED FOR. - GL

WHAT ARE YOU DOING? - MH

I BELIEVE THE KIDS CALLTHIS ‘SEXTING’. IT’S ALL I’VE GOT LEFT. RUBBED MYSELF RAW THINKING ABOUT YOU AND YOUR DAMNED SUITS. - GL

YOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL. ANY INJURY WILL SET OUR TIME TABLE BACK EVEN FURTHER. AND THAT WOULD BE A SHAME. - MH

 LISTEN TO ME, MYCROFT HOLMES. I WANT YOU HOME IN MY BED. IN YOUR BED. OVER MY DESK. OVER A TABLE. ON THE FUCKING FLOOR. - GL

IN FRONT OF CHRIST AND THE ENTIRE BRITISH EMPIRE. I WILL HAVE YOU. I WANT TO YOUR LIPS ON MINE. I WANT TO FEEL YOU UNDER MY SKIN AND MAKE YOU SCREAM MY NAME. - GL

I WANT TO GO ABOUT MY DAY AND BE ABLE TO STILL TASTE YOU IN THE BACK OF MY THROAT. FUCKING COME HOME. NOW - GL

LET ME SEE WHAT I CAN ARRANGE. - MH

Mycroft swallowed hard and cast a glance down the sudden and raging erection and dialed Anthea. He was a bit out of breath as he spoke.

“Anthea.”

“Sir?”

“I…I’m afraid I need to go home. Send my regards to the Ministry. They can finish up here.”

“I see.” He swore he could hear the smile in her voice. “Shall I arrange it for you?”

“God, yes.” He could hear typing in the background.

“Very good, sir. The car will pick you up in an hour. I’ll forward your key to DI Lestrade, shall I?”

“Please.” The pounding in his chest became worse and it was becoming more difficult to breathe. More typing on the other end.

“It’s been taken care of, sir. The key and instructions are on their way. Shall I clear your schedule for the next forty-eight?” Her tone was clipped and efficient, but yes, there was definitely a smile there. She really was a peach, wasn’t she?

“Yes. Do that.”

“It’s all done, sir. Safe travels.” The line went dead.

With trembling fingers, he began to type again.

I ACCEPT YOUR TERMS. SHOULD BE HOME IN ABOUT FOUR HOURS. IF THIS BRINGS ABOUT ANOTHER COLD WAR, I HOLD YOU PERSONALLY RESPONSIBLE. - MH

COMMUNISM BE DAMNED. ANTHEA TEXTED ME. I’LL BE WAITING FOR YOU. - GL

Something clenched in his chest and made its way lower on his body, heating in small increments as it moved. Four hours. He flew off the bed in a rush, not bothering to call for a valet to pack his things. Four hours. Damn, but it felt like a lifetime. _I’m coming home, Greg. I’m coming home to you._


	7. A Troubling Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Brenna, who requested some seriously hot frottage. I hope this is satisfactory, madame.

He fumbled with the key card twice before the swipe registered, barely getting a  foot inside the door before two strong, tanned hands fisted in the lapels of his jacket and hurled him bodily against the wall of the hallway. Greg kicked the door shut with a loud slam and pressed the length of his body into Mycroft’s.

Greg was all heat and muscle even through the layers of his clothes, and the sheer power that lay underneath was evident in the hard press. The sudden contact sparked a fierce burn that moved like lightning through his limbs. Their eyes locked, Greg’s face so close, his warm breath gusting over Mycroft’s lips. A feral glint glimmered in his amber eyes and the lines of his face were hard, focused. He could feel the slight tremor in Greg’s body, realizing with excitement that Greg was having a hard time holding back. The knowledge was euphoric. His tongue slipped out to moisten lips that had suddenly gone dry as a bone and Greg’s eyes followed the gesture, darkening with intense hunger.

“Hello, Mycroft. Safe trip?” Greg murmured.

“Yes, thank you,” he managed to croak.

“Brilliant.”

Something flared in Greg’s eyes and then his mouth descended in a growl, capturing his lips in a rough caress. The fingers at his chest gripped harder and Greg moved, flattening himself, ensuring that no part of their bodies remained unconnected.

The brief pleasantries were the only warning he had before everything became hot, wet, and so frighteningly possessive. Mycroft’s hands reflexively dropped his bags to steady themselves on Greg’s hips because instantly Greg was everywhere, his tongue forcing its way inside his mouth on a ragged groan, his lips and teeth kissing and biting their way across his mouth and jaw, branding him with each fiery pass.

Every nerve in his body shot to life, powered by the electric current of Greg’s demanding movements. The hands that held him so tightly went flat, palms sliding across his chest and torso, nails raking and clenching through layers of cotton and wool. Mycroft gasped as Greg’s lips found his ear, alternating between the dizzying sensations of licking and sucking. His cock hardened in his trousers, straining, aching to press closer. Greg must have felt it, because he groaned and shifted, pulling back and then rocking forward to slam Mycroft’s hips hard against the wall. His fingers curled into the waistband of Greg’s jeans for support as he went boneless and melted against him, the feel of their bodies pressed together, so hard, making him flush with want.

Greg braced his weight and pushed harder with his hips, aligning their erections, allowing them to roughly slide back and forth between the heavy layers of fabric. He moaned, low and deep in the back of his throat and Mycroft turned his head back to find Greg’s lips and capture them with his own. The DI opened for him and Mycroft’s vision went fuzzy beneath his closed lids as he slipped his tongue inside. Greg arched against him with a whimper and met him thrust for thrust. The taste of him was extraordinary. Fire and heat and spice and sex. Druggingly addictive and he wanted more.

Mouths slid across one another with hard, biting kisses as hands roamed, seeking the fire that was contained at every point of contact. Mycroft pushed from against the wall, feeling bolder, wanting more of this man in his grasp, under his hands, in his mouth. Greg smiled beneath his lips as he upped the game, grinding furiously into Mycroft as they fought for dominance.

The sensation was staggering, every touch, every kiss rerouting the neural pathways of pleasure straight to his cock. He wanted. He needed. Mycroft groaned at the intensity of the desire, every nerve alive and making him tremble. Greg held him tight, pressing, pushing, touching, biting, kissing and licking in a frenzied whirlwind of hands and lips. He was a tangible, living embodiment of passion, every part of him seeping into all of Mycroft’s senses, filling him until every conscious part of him knew nothing but _Greg_. His cock jumped and twitched in response and a strange heaviness began to build at the base of his spine, twisting and curling into a burning coil of tension.

Greg panted heavily and increased the pressure of the kiss, teeth rough and clashing, and Mycroft felt a sharp sting and a whispery tang of blood blossomed on his lips. Neither man pulled back and Greg continued the assault, bucking against him in earnest.

“Oh, God, Greg! Greg!” he moaned, breaking free from Greg’s lips. “Yes! Greg, please!”

The tension spiraled downward and he pushed against Greg’s hips, and finally the coil unraveled and burst as orgasm claimed him. He shuddered violently in release, groaning softly as he felt the hot wetness in his trousers.

Greg’s head snapped back at Mycroft’s hoarse wail and his hands wound their way into his hair, jerking his head back sharply. Greg’s head dropped to the curve of his neck as those fingers curled into his scalp, the sting so hot and so delicious. Another harsh growl from Greg as his hips rocked faster, fucking him hard against the wall.

“Mycroft, I…..Oh, fuck! Fuck, Mycroft!”

He felt Greg quake and shiver against him, clutching him fiercely as release overtook him.

Greg slumped against him with a ragged sigh, his breath hot and moist on his neck. When he pulled back, Greg’s eyes were hazy and a slight frown turned down his bruised lips. His breathing came in choppy, uneven puffs and his voice was rough as he rasped, “Oh, Christ, Mycroft. I’m sorry. _That_ has never happened to me before.”

Mycroft gave him a misty grin and chuckled, “Me either.”

Greg’s face broke into a slow and sleepy smile and it made Mycroft want to kiss him again. “Another unexpected first, then?”

Mycroft nodded and gave into to the urge, ghosting a kiss across Greg’s lips.

Greg’s face went serious. “I really had intended to draw this out. Make it good.” His thumb came up to swipe away the tinge of blood from his swollen lip. “Sorry about that.” He snorted roughly through his nose and rested his forehead on Mycroft’s. “I just-,” he paused, looking for the words, “God, Mycroft, what you do to me.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand.”

“Fuck, you must be dead on your feet,” he said, suddenly stepping back. “I think we could both do with a shower and a nap.” Greg chuckled as he began to divest Mycroft of his tie. “Don’t worry,” he said with a smile, “I promise to behave.” He winked mischievously. “For now.”


	8. A Troubling Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut as promised. For those who stuck with me, you have my eternal thanks.

Hours later (how many he really couldn’t tell), Mycroft drifted awake to the feel of a warm body wrapped around his. Greg pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along his shoulders and neck, nuzzling at the sensitive spot behind his ear.

Greg’s voice was husky from sleep. “Hi. Sleep well?”

Mycroft turned over to look into his eyes, heavy-lidded with contentment, his face slack with relaxation. He smiled softly. “I did. You?”

“You bet.” A grin appeared. “I could get used to waking up like this. With you in my arms.”

“I admit this is nice. Infinitely better than waking up alone,” Mycroft confessed with a blush.

“Well, perhaps we should make this a regular occurrence.”

Mycroft pressed a gentle kiss to Greg’s lips, pleased to feel him lean into the embrace. “I think that could be a definite possibility.”

“You don’t think that’s a little presumptive, considering we haven’t really had sex yet? Properly, I mean.” The glimmer in Greg’s eyes caused something to swell in his chest, something that made this feel so very right. Natural. Effortless. Something that made him think that they were both exactly where they belonged.

He reached out to stroke Greg’s cheek, trailing his fingers along his skin, tracing every line and feature, committing them to memory. “I think that there’s something about you, Gregory Lestrade, which makes me feel wonderful. I like that feeling, and I want it for as long as possible. And I want very much to explore all the possibilities of this relationship.” Greg blinked and focused.

“You mean that?”

“I do. I want to be with you. I want to learn all about you. I have discovered a deep and abiding affection for you. One that I don’t think will dissipate over time. I want to see where this takes us. If you’re willing, that is.”

Greg’s breath caught and his lashes fluttered, and the vulnerable flash that danced across his face made him smile. He was so beautiful. So heartbreakingly beautiful.

“You romantic,” Greg said breathlessly, kissing him tenderly. “When you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

“Well, you could say no,” Mycroft laughed, “But then there’s always Newcastle.”

Greg bit back a sharp laugh of his own. “I see you’re not above using threats to get your way. I should have expected nothing less from the man behind the curtain.”

He pulled Greg close and kissed him again, savoring the taste of him. “We have our ways. Everyone has their trigger,” he said huskily, his hand creeping down to grasp Greg’s prominent erection. “The trick is knowing where to apply the most pressure.”

His hand curled experimentally and Greg moaned loudly.

Mycroft pulled back with a start. “I’m sorry—“

“Don’t.” A finger shushed him and Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t ever be sorry. Don’t ever feel like you can’t touch me. I want you to. You can touch me however you like. Don’t ever feel like you can’t explore my body.” His hands reached for Mycroft beneath the sheets. “I plan on doing some extensive exploring of my own now that I’ve got you right where I want you.”

“And where is that?”

“Naked. In bed. With me.” His hand came up to curl around his neck and bring him down to Greg’s lips.

“Oh, Greg.”

Greg sucked in a breath at the soft sound of his name. “I’m at my absolute limit, Mycroft, with the way you say my name, and unless you’ve changed your mind, I should let you know that I intend to have my wicked way with you.”

The possessive strength in that voice went straight to Mycroft’s groin, making him shudder from head to toe.

And before he even had a chance to respond, he felt Greg’s teeth nibbling at his earlobe. _Good Lord, how exactly does the man seem to know every single one of his sensitive spots when even he wasn’t aware of them all?_ Another moan escaped him and he involuntarily bucked his hips. Mycroft moved again to gain more friction, but a firm hand to his hip stilled him.

“Oh, no, Mycroft, not yet,” Greg’s voice purred in his ear. “This is not going to be a quick round of ‘King of the Mountain’. I want to take my time. I want to explore every single inch of your body and find all the places that will break you. I want you speechless with desire, completely unraveled with need and watch you come apart in my arms.”

Mycroft wanted to mumble that if he kept talking like that, they wouldn’t even get to ‘King of the Mountain’, but he lost his voice as a hot, wet tongue left a trail of small, quick licks from the oh-God-yes spot behind his ear all the way down to where neck met shoulder. It proceeded to swirl around with dizzying little circles, accompanied by sucking lips.

He moaned softly, arching into the caress, and Greg’s hands moved to roam lightly over his body. Feathery touches of the pads of his fingers slid knowingly over his skin, squeezing and kneading, working the flesh, slowly awakening every nerve ending they passed. His body began to hum as the blood rushed through his limbs, thrumming in a cadence that echoed in his ears. It was as if he came to life and then was slowly being drugged, this alternation of heady feeling.

Greg’s mouth followed his hands, descending on a delicious downward spiral of lips and tongue, finding the hard nubs of nipples, exploiting them and the needy, keening sound that escaped him. The desperate gasps sounded wanton to his ears and he flushed pink and turned his face away.

Greg chuckled against his chest. “Don’t be embarrassed. I want to hear you. I love the sound of your voice.” He punctuated the statement with a long swipe of the tongue down the middle of his chest, moving dangerously lower to territory that was alive and aching with want. The moist slide of heat stopped only to cover his navel in a loud, erotic kiss, and Greg latched on with a hard pull of his mouth. The sensation made Mycroft shout in a half-wail, half-moan as Greg sucked, darting his tongue in a wicked parody of sex that made his eyes roll back and see stars.

There was so much he wanted to say, to express. Words, beautifully formed, to let Greg know exactly what he was feeling, what he wanted. The haze that crept into his brain took over as Greg worked his body, and all he could manage was a string of unintelligible sounds, broken words, and ragged sighs. Greg took it all in stride, cooing softly, murmuring words of encouragement, or endearment, it was difficult to say, since his mind was mostly occupied with the feel of Greg’s pointed tongue and the knowledge that it was about to go lower at any moment. Lower was good. Lower was very, very good.

He couldn’t help but stifle the groan that burst forth, biting down hard on his knuckles to muffle the sound, as Greg’s hand reached for his erection.

“No,” Greg whispered roughly, his grip firm on the base of Mycroft’s cock, breath playing at the tip, moist and hot, and so damned close, but not close enough. “I told you, I want to hear you. I want to hear how I make you moan, make you scream. I want to hear my name fall from your lips. When all you can think is ‘Greg’ as you come in my mouth.”

Mycroft’s hand fell away from his face, dropping lightly onto Greg’s head. Fingers curled into the short, silver locks and Greg moaned in rapt approval. Hot, wet heat surrounded him and he threw his head back, the deep growl erupting from his throat for Greg’s ears alone.

Nothing could have prepared him for the onslaught of sensory information that coursed through his body. The feeling started at his cock and cascaded outward like the rolling tide, covering every part of him, the ebb and flow of pleasure so relentless, it broke upon him like waves against the breakers. Greg’s tongue swirled and licked slowly, taking his time, moving carelessly over his flesh as if it weren’t, in fact, driving him completely mad. Greg grunted and shifted, uncomfortable, and he let go and moved from the bed.

Mycroft bit back a small, confused cry and opened his eyes to see his lover, focused and fearsome, panting heavily.

“Not good,” he said between breaths. “Fucks up my back like that. Not as young as I used to be.” Greg’s strong hand grabbed for his ankle and yanked, pulling Mycroft to the edge of the bed in one swift move. The surprised yelp was cut off and replaced with a deep moan as Greg dropped to his knees and forced Mycroft’s thighs open wide with hands like steel, swallowing him in one long pass.

Mycroft nearly came off the bed as his hips bucked into Greg’s hot mouth and his hands curled into the sheets, digging in for all he was worth. He could see Greg’s talented lips curve into a smile around the length of his cock. Gorgeous. The man was bloody gorgeous. Greg’s fingers tightened as they gripped harder, holding him still while his mouth bobbed up and down, the slow, heated slide making every muscle clench in reaction. He gasped as Greg’s mouth popped off his cock and he buried his face in the juncture of his thighs, nuzzling the base and mouthing his balls with lazy interest.

“Oh, God, Greg!” he moaned, his head falling back against the mattress.

Greg’s hot breath stuttered on his flesh as he chuckled. “Much better this way.” He rolled his tongue around Mycroft’s sac, sucking and nibbling gently. “Now I can get to every part of you.” He pushed Mycroft’s thighs further apart and drew in a forceful breath before diving in again. “Fuck, Mycroft, I could spend the rest of my life between your legs and die a happy man.”

“That makes two of us,” Mycroft panted. “Don’t stop, Greg.” His bottom lip caught between his teeth and all sense of self-control vanished. “Please don’t stop. _Please_ ,” he whined, suddenly not caring how desperate it sounded. All he knew was that he wanted Greg’s mouth on his cock again and for those fingers to clutch harder, to leave marks that would still be there by morning. Marks that would remind him of just how much he needed this.

Thank God Greg was obliging, because his mouth returned its attention to Mycroft’s cock, enveloping him in the satiny heat, the tiny flicks of his tongue over the head driving him to distraction. He felt the strong grip of Greg’s hand join in, twisting and stroking along the length, providing more friction than he thought he could take.

Greg’s mouth was hot as sin as he licked at the slit and then back around the entire head of Mycroft’s cock.  He had to reach for Greg’s other hand, now on his stomach, and clasp it in a white-knuckled grip as the tip of Greg’s tongue danced over the spot just beneath and the head. Greg returned the squeeze.

Lick, stroke, suck, twist. Lick, stroke, suck, twist. It was a maddening rhythm, one designed to draw out every moan and gasp he had. It worked to perfection. Mouth and fingers working together pressing all the right keys, plucking all the right strings. God, Greg was playing him like an instrument and Mycroft forgot to breathe.

“Greg!” was all he could choke out. He was inches away from orgasm. He could taste it.

The hand on Mycroft’s stomach was soothing even his skin prickled with heat beneath it.  “I want to hear you, Mycroft,” Greg said with a firm stroke of his cock from root to tip. “I want to watch you come hard, and I want to hear you through every moment of it.”

 “Oh, please! Christ, Greg! Fuck! Yes! _Fuck, Greg!_ ”  Mycroft let all the words and grunts and pants and groans that had been circling his brain finally fall out of his mouth just like Greg wanted.  Greg’s mouth and hand moved quicker and tighter around his cock in response, that sinful tongue undulating like a snake along the underside.  Greg hummed low and satisfied along the length and he shattered.

Mycroft felt his body curve in on itself, every muscle in his body contracting en masse.  He was still holding Greg’s hand in a death grip, screaming.  Flashes of light and color danced behind his eyes illuminating the black. He gasped Greg’s name once more and erupted into Greg’s mouth.

He was still twitching as Greg licked him clean, a deep purr rumbling from his lips.  Mycroft felt Greg stand and climb back onto the bed next to him, moving up and over to press warm, wet, lazy kisses (that were mostly tongue) all over Mycroft’s still quaking torso.

“Th-that was amazing,” Mycroft stammered, looking down at Greg. “I’ve never-“

“ _Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground_ ,” Greg breathed into Mycroft’s belly.

“13th century Persian love poems? You Renaissance man. And here you said I was the romantic,” Mycroft smiled as he let his head flop back with a huff.

Greg stared at him with mock seriousness. “I am a man of many talents.” He licked his lips, overtly dragging his tongue across his mouth with lascivious intent. “And I do read, you know. I happen to enjoy Rumi. There is an eloquence and romanticism to his words that I find most appealing.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You are a very passionate man.”

Greg flipped Mycroft over onto his stomach and straddled his hips, pressing into his back. “You’re about to discover how passionate,” Greg chuckled.

Greg started low on his back, lips and tongue meeting first the dip of his lower back and then each of his hips in succession.  With just the tip of his tongue, Greg traced the line of Mycroft’s spine up to the space between his shoulder blades.  He felt Greg move, repositioning his knees on either side of his thighs.  He settled down onto the back of his legs, and he had the first sensation of how Greg was affected.  The heavy, pleasing weight of Greg’s cock rested along the length of his arse.  It was hard and hot, and when Mycroft raised his hips experimentally, he could feel a trickle of pre-come smear along his right cheek.  Greg emitted a dark hiss at the movement and Mycroft ground his pelvis back down into the mattress.

Greg’s hands were back on his hips, stilling them with a “Not yet. Slow. Remember?” 

Mycroft felt himself groan involuntarily in response.  _This was slow?_

“It’s too soon for penetration. Let’s work our way to that,” Greg explained with a low breath. “I’m going to come between your thighs.”

Mycroft’s mouth went dry and he swallowed a nervous moan. Jesus, that sounded so…so _good_. Hands smoothed their way up along the muscles on either side of his spine and down.  The gesture was repeated with a detour to his sides this time.  The third time Greg paused longer to grasp the flesh and knead it in his hands.  By the fourth pass of those delectable hands on his body, Mycroft was panting again.  He felt Greg lean forward onto his knees and bring his hands beneath his arms on either side.  The mouth was back, this time tasting his shoulder blades.  He waited for the inevitable nipping.  He wasn’t disappointed.

“You’re awfully mouthy,” Mycroft mumbled into the crook of his own arm.

“Only when there’s something worth tasting.”  Even though the words had been teasing, they sounded constricted by desire.

“You do like to use those teeth of yours, don’t you? I might be concerned that you’ll devour me in my sleep. Seems like a heavenly way to go.”

“I want to swallow you whole,” Greg answered into the nape of his neck with a sharp bite, and Mycroft was suddenly sparked with a stab of lust.

At that moment, all he wanted was that sweet sensation of skin on skin again, and he lifted his hips until he was almost on his knees, seeking the feel of Greg’s stomach and cock against him.  When he reached Greg, the man barked out an “Oh, fuck,” before pulling an arm around Mycroft’s waist to hold him close before lowering him back to the bed. Greg laid himself out, holding himself up on his elbows and letting the weight of his lower torso and pelvis sink into him.  Greg remained motionless for a long moment before beginning a slow thrust that rolled against his entire body and ended against his upper back.  He repeated the thrust and Mycroft groaned throughout the motion as it brought a delicious friction to his own cock against the bed underneath him.  On the third thrust, Greg ended by lowering his weight completely onto him.  He could feel Greg’s breathing, feverish and labored in his ear.

“Fuck,” was Mycroft’s only response, because this fire was burning hot enough to melt him whole.  He wasn’t sure if Greg would take that as a “please,” so he decided for the more direct route and pushed himself back until Greg’s cock slid into place.  Arms moved to bracket his, up under his shoulders, and Greg settled above him with his thighs just outside of Mycroft’s.  He could feel tremors moving through Greg’s arms and legs as he began the first slow thrust against him. On instinct, he pulled his thighs closer together and clenched around Greg’s cock.

“Feels so good,” Greg ground out, his body stuttering violently. “Love that I have you swearing.”

He continued thrusting in a deliberately drawn-out pace, rocking and bucking, and Mycroft was amazed at how he could feel every inch of Greg with a heightened level of detail along the hypersensitive skin of his thighs and crotch.  Greg felt like pulsing, burning velvet sliding down his perineum to push at his balls and up into the base of his own cock. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he panted. “God, your body. I just want to defile myself upon it.” Mycroft decided he was perfectly happy to let him. For as long as he wanted.

Greg didn’t keep the unhurried pace for long, and soon he was pushing fast and hard with a mixture of grunts, moans, and bitten off exclamations of “Fuck!” and “Mycroft!” and “Christ!”  Mycroft only half-registered the steady babble, because his whole awareness had narrowed to the points of contact between him and Greg.  He tried to catalogue every searing impact of Greg’s sweat-slicked pelvis against his ass, every push the tip of his cock made against his balls, every time the base ground into his perineum and Greg’s balls landed heavy against the back of his thighs.  In all honesty, it felt a little dirty. And absolutely perfect.

“Close,” was all the warning he had before Greg shouted at a shockingly loud volume into the room and shook apart against him.  He felt it, the spurt of wetness between his legs, but Greg still moved between them, stroking himself through his orgasm, and any other thought was lost among the sweat and the scent.

Greg collapsed and then rolled to the side, an arm flung across his face. Mycroft turned, and Greg reached out, pulling him into the crook of his shoulder. Greg’s head fell back as he placed soft kisses along his collarbone, stretching up to meet his jaw. Greg moved his head to meet his lips and they kissed, long and sweet, with mingled tongues and rasps of lips. Mycroft let out a small shudder as he tasted himself in the corners of Greg’s mouth. It was slightly bitter, but the satiny feel and spicy taste of Greg somehow made it all the more intoxicating. Greg pulled back and rested his head, and Mycroft nestled snugly in the security of Greg’s arms.

“I swear, Mycroft, you’ll be the death of me.”

“And you me.”

“At least we’ll be together.”

“Thank God for that,” he chuckled. Greg’s other arm curled lazily around him, hugging him tightly to his chest.

“I cuddle,” Greg blurted.

“I noticed. Not complaining.”

“I’m also messy, disorganized, and I have a thing for Jaffa cakes.”

“Well, who doesn’t? You wouldn’t be English if you didn’t.”

“I’m just trying to let you know what you’re in for.”

“If that was a sample, then I’m all in, love.”

Greg looked down at him with bright, shining eyes, pupils still blown from release. “Endearments? No, you’re definitely the romantic.” He tugged Mycroft closer for a moment before pulling back. “Here, let me get you a warm flannel. You’ve got to be sticky.”

Mycroft snuggled in, refusing to let go. “It’s fine. I have a feeling I’m going to have to get used to your kind of messes. I can be flexible, you know.”

“Flexible?” Greg repeated with a laugh. “Good God, if that’s the case darling, you really are going to kill me.” He dropped a light kiss along Mycroft’s brow.

“Good. That was my plan. Death by sex. Government sponsored and everything.”

Greg leaned down and captured his mouth again in a hot, slow press of lips. He murmured, “Praise God for the Empire.”

“Indeed.”

 

 

 


End file.
